


The Same Satan

by viaorel



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Hallucinations, Implied Rough Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viaorel/pseuds/viaorel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a person who is mostly good falls for the person who is mostly bad, each of them has to embrace the other for who they are. One sacrifices, the other takes the necessary steps for the immolation not to be too dire. It is what they call a good marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Satan

The moaning stops as a warm yellow light drops into the bedroom in a thin line, revealing a glimmering torso of a standing man. Bloody scratches along it. Fresh.

“Abigail?”

She knows the tone. Not a question in it but a mild reprimand. Not now, but one unsuspecting, perfectly innocent day, soon enough, he will, very gently, push down her throat the lesson of knocking first.

Apparently having no survival instinct whatsoever, she can’t help peering inside. They say curiosity killed the cat. One of those days, she knows, she will end up just the same. Probably worse.

As the door presses inside under her weight, the yellow light from the hallway catches the sight of another body curled on the floor, half-naked, shaking lightly. Breathing with effort. Face turned away, dark curls wet with blood and sweat. A tight loop on the bruised, irritated neck, rope going down to capture the wrists and ankles. Back and sides all hideous with black and blue and purple livid marks.

“He likes to fight me,” Hannibal explains in his casual voice, and that is when she notices he is holding the end of that rope in one hand, a nightstick in the other.

She shuts the door quickly and whisper-steps along the hallway of their house back to her old room. A clear intention in her mind not to set foot outside until the night is over.

 

“You think we should buy her a place of her own?”

“No need,” Hannibal answers after taking a lingering drag from the silver mouthpiece of the small Persian hookah standing between them. Then gives it back. “Abigail is an adult now, true, but all her shiny new college freedom cannot satisfy one thing she truly strives for.”

“Which is?”

“Being someone’s little girl. We can give her that.”

Will inhales deeply, a serene bubbling noise from the dark green vase accompanying him. Holds his breath a little, then breathes the smoke out, leaning onto Hannibal’s shoulder and melting into it. Finally sated.

“I doubt she felt like a little girl seeing what she saw earlier tonight.”

“On the contrary. In that particular picture she felt clearly out of place, completely inappropriate, shameful even. The youth rarely have the privilege of experiencing such child-like states, having tried mostly everything from the adult world and getting gradually weary of it. We exposed her to something dubious, true, but it was a gift nevertheless. We gave Abigail exactly what she wanted, which was to feel like a child again, unprotected and always seeing a wall of gargantuan taboo before her.”

“Some gift,” Will snorts weakly and doesn’t argue furhter.

They continue to smoke in silence, music murmuring softly from another room. Soon there will be sunrise, and then another day of something normal, and dull, and not new at all.

“I could just stay like this forever,” Will admits in a half-dozed whisper, the exhaustion and the opium finally getting to him.

 Hannibal smiles with his lips only and presses him closer with his left arm. His body is warm. Familiar.

“I know. But everything is fragile, my friend. I wouldn’t want us to ever forget that.”

 

“Fucking hell,” Beverly comments when she sees the obscene red mark over his neck. “You wanna put powder on that before Jack sees you? Pretty sure I have some in my purse, but no promises.”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Will buttons up his shirt and puts the collar up. It won’t fool anyone, of course, but he will feel better like this nevertheless. More normal, less like an unfitting jigsaw puzzle. And besides, he doesn’t really care what Jack sees or doesn’t see. He’s long past caring.

Beverly makes a face looking at his reflection in the mirror as she washes her hands.

“Your marriage is fucking weird, man.”

They end up in one car as they drive to the crime scene. Beverly keeps shooting sideways glances at his neck, and she seems to notice the ligature marks on his wrists, too.

“So Abigail is back for the holidays, huh.”

“Yeah.”

The world outside the car window is so unbelievably boring, Will speculates off-handedly. Here’s hoping the new killer will be any fun.

“You cooking up a family thing together?”

“Hannibal wants to take her hunting.”

“You tagging along?”

“No.”

“Taking her fishing later on?”

“First we’ll see how the hunting goes. She hasn’t been around for six months, her tastes might have changed some.”

“Huh. Is she-”

“What?”

“Is she okay with this?” She gives an unclear wave which is hard to misinterpret.

“It’s consensual. What’s not to be okay with?”

Beverly shrugs noncommittally and leans back, a concerned little wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“I guess you’re right. But it’s still pretty fucking weird, Will.”

“Yeah.”

 

**Sent you the pictures from today’s scene. Guy’s most likely a doctor, a pharmacist, something in the area. Growing old, had been doing this for some while before but got back to his tricks just now. Something triggered him. I think it’s the death of a close person, most likely his anchor. A wife or a child. I’m betting on the child.**

**I would bet on that, too. Are you sure you want me to know all this?**

**Yes, I don’t want him to end up Chilton’s plaything, it’s despicable seeing him gloat like that. Besides, have you seen that Lounds article today? The guy doesn’t deserve such publicity.**

**Agreed. So be it then. How?**

**Off with his head.**

**Duly noted. Something with garlic perhaps?**

**Up to you.**

**In that case I might be a little late tonight.**

**I’ll keep myself busy.**

**I promised Abigail to take her hunting with me.**

**Fine. Don’t take too long.**

 

 

“You don’t think it’s destroying him?”

Hannibal drums his index finger on the steering wheel of his car once, twice, seven times altogether before he turns, and in the darkness she can only see his narrow eyes lucent. She is a little scared, but the feeling means home to her. She relaxes into the familiarity of it.

“I disagree. It is the only thing that keeps our Will together, Abigail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is not your place to understand, but I will explain to you if you wish.”

“Please.”

They sit like that, quietly savoring the upcoming moment in the safe darkness of their wait, for some time. Then Abigail feels a ghost touch on her shoulder.

“The Russians have a curious expression. I first heard it as a child and could not forget ever since – so stricken I was by its brilliance. It translates like this, Husband and wife are the same Satan.”

“What?” she lets out a nervous giggle.

“It is remarkably accurate, Abigail. When we truly love someone, we cannot help but notice the darker sides of our chosen one. And after much fruitless struggle we are left with all but one choice: to embrace it. Some even learn to celebrate it, to gloat in the wickedness of another. Our Will is a different breed, but he has been doing a fine job embracing what he cannot weed out. It does not abate his tribulations, however.”

“What tribulations? What do you mean?”

When Hannibal speaks again, she can discern a smile in his voice.

“He revels in the ability to live and let live regarding his darlings, but this necessity does not give way to his other side, I’m afraid, which is an essential part of him and cannot be overlooked. And therefore he needs an outer force to make him do what he has to do in order for this family to function. He needs a reason to let us, you and me, Abigail, be ourselves. That is why from time to time I let him believe that I am forcing all of this on him. Do you understand?”

Another silence follows, and suddenly, when his words sink in fully, Abigail is so overwhelmed with a wave of immeasurable, tenebrous love for both of them that she lets out a choked sob and latches onto Hannibal’s arm ferociously. Then stays that way for a long time, catatonic compliance in her every shaky breath. Hannibal pats her on the head, imperious. Plays with her hair absent-mindedly.

“You should braid it, you know,” he says. “Leave no evidence, remember?”

“Okay.”

“Oh. It looks like our guest of honor has finally arrived.” He nods at the approaching lights of the blue Mercedes they have been waiting for. “Are you ready?”

Abigail reaches for her rifle.

 

 

“Help! Heeeelp!”

Will gives the man a stern estimating look. He was right about the aging part – most of the man’s hair is white as snow. A little pudgy, that special brand of old man pudge. Weak arms. However did he manage to put that girl up a tree and do all those things to the body? Must be the adrenalin.

Hannibal looks up and captures him standing on the first step of their basement staircase. His fringe in such artsy disarray that Will can’t help staring. A smudge of blood on his left cheekbone. A nonchalant smile. Eyes beaming with pride and humble love.

“I will be up soon, my friend.”

 _I could die seeing that face_ , Will thinks. He doesn’t smile back because the old man is looking, and that would somehow stain the experience.

“Who are you? Help me! Call the police!” the man shouts in three laborious breaths, then yells when Hannibal playfully puts a knife between his ribs.

“Don’t take too long,” Will says flatly and turns around to shut the heavy basement door of their house, leaving the yelling and the other things behind.

 

 

“I could get used to this.”

Jack is wearing disgust all over his face when he inspects the body.

“What?” Will, who is standing a few steps behind, makes a pause to collect himself before he says it. “The Ripper doing our job for us?”

“Sure hope he’s not expecting a payroll. That’s the third time this year, Will. How does he always know before we do? What is his gain from all this?”

“More publicity, I figure. More fear. He is the alpha wolf around here, he wants to prove it.”

In his death, the old guy somehow seems less disgusting to Will. He even feels a little sorry.

“Prove to whom? There’s no one nastier than him in the neighborhood.”

“We don’t know that for sure, Jack. There might be.”

“Please,” Jack snorts, then gives him a long look.  Will doesn’t budge. “We would know if there were another psycho of such caliber wandering around our modest abode.”

Will stays silent. He spots Freddy Lounds’ red hair in the crowd, and for a second there he feels proud to show her.

_See what my Hannibal did here?_

Yeah, right. In another world, maybe.

“Has anyone found the head yet?”

 

“You traitor.”

A kick right in the gut leaves Will breathless. He curls up to protect his stomach, and that is when another kick makes him cough up blood. He lies on the floor quietly, feeling the need to lick his lips to get rid of the salty wet droplets but not doing it. If another kick catches him off guard, he might bite his tongue.

“You thought I was blind enough not to put two and two together, Will? You got too proud and careless. Setting your lapdog on them through texting and email wasn’t just a dumb move, it was arrogant. Is this all a game you’ve been playing with us? Is it all your doing or Lecter’s?”

“No, Jack, please listen-”

A heavy boot grinds into his side. Bright lights flicker and jump around before his closed eyes, and Will yelps and tries to crawl away blindly, through the stygian darkness of the room.

“What is it that you were hoping for? Tell me, I want to understand this sick clusterfuck you got yourself into before I hand you over.”

Will fumbles for the edge of the bed, grabs onto it, tries to raise himself. Everything hurts. The darkness seems to be devouring the last bits of his strength, and when another hard kick pins him back down to the floor, crushed like a bug on the road, he doesn’t struggle anymore.

He lies there, quietly tolerating the agony, lies for what seems like hours before he feels a ghostly breath over his ear. And hears a deep, remorseful, proud voice above him.

“You protected me.”

“Y-Yes.”

“You saved my freedom for me.”

“For me,” Will corrects in a husky, broken whisper. He can feel tears already welling up. He doesn’t stop them.

A warm hand brushes over his wet curls, touches the back of his neck. Stroking it gently.

“You love me. All of me.”

“Yes.”

He is then turned, ever so gently, onto his back, and the darkness pours into him through the warm, familiar lips. Will cries and cries, face pressed right into the pulsing vein on the neck of his darkness, and keeps repeating the word over and over again until he and the darkness become one.

 

 

“So?” Hannibal asks as he hands him the tube. “Who did you see?”

Will gives him his best sideways smirk.

“Like you don’t know.”

“The dose I gave you tonight was more potent, therefore the result may differ from the usual.”

Will waves it off and inhales. The bubbling sound. The music in another room. Hannibal’s shoulder. This is his wonderland, and he never wants to crawl back up the rabbit hole.

After a long silence, replete with unimportant bits of emotions in the aftermath, Hannibal asks another question.

“Did Jack talk to you?”

“ _You_ talked to me.”

“I did not use words tonight. What did Jack say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Hannibal, just drop it.”

“If you wish.”

Their bodies, limp and shiny with sweat, are entangled on the warm woolen blanket among plush cushions, and the acute smell of the smoke crawling its way into Will’s nostrils and deeper into his lungs makes him feel sane for the first time in days.

“I’m glad that old prick got what he deserved. And I’m not happy about that happiness,” he admits suddenly, for no reason at all.

Hannibal presses a wet kiss to his clavicle, then bites the skin a little. Trails the bite mark with his tongue slowly until Will’s breath quickens and his mouth opens. Then puts an arm around his chest and presses him close, carefully, like the most precious thing.

He doesn’t say anything, but Will knows that he really doesn’t need to hear any words now. So he leans back and places his face right into that same beautifully pulsing vein. To feel that heart beat is bliss. As long as it beats, there will be sense, and there will be a tomorrow worth waiting for.

**Author's Note:**

> The story originally came to me with the title His Wonderland, but I felt this one was more fitting. I don't think it really needs any more scenes, but if you guys feel some pages have been left unturned, let me know. Thanks in advance for the support!


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